Pages Torn Out
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "I had never pushed Papa so hard to talk about anything before." Excerpts from a diary Cosette keeps growing up, in which she tries to learn more about her past.
1. My 13th Birthday

Hello and happy new year, readers! I'm very excited to finally start publishing this story. It's going to be a long one, at least by my standards (possibly the longest story I've written so far!), and I don't often write multi-chapter stuff, so this is a big deal for me.

To me, one of the most interesting things in _Les Miserables_ are the questions alluded to in "In My Life." No doubt there was a _lot_ that Cosette was "longing to know," both about her own past and Valjean's. How did she make sense of how drastically her life changed when Valjean adopted her? What questions did she ask him about his past? What did he tell her, and what did she believe? Well, in this story, I'm going to attempt to answer those questions and more. This is set when Cosette is a young teenager, and she and Valjean are living on Rue de l'Ouest (after leaving the convent and before moving to Rue Plumet). As you might know, in most of my stories about these two, Cosette is a little girl, so I wanted to write her as a teenager for a change.

When I started working on this story, I couldn't decide if I should tag it to the book, the play, or the new movie. Well, I never could decide, and so I ended up drawing from all three — and taking a few liberties with all three! I hope this won't be too confusing for anyone! Please review or PM me if you have any questions. Like all writers, I _love_ getting any feedback from my readers.

(For my own reference: 65th fanfiction, 9th story for _Les Miserables_, 1st story of 2014.)

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___April 7, 1829  
Feast Day of St. Jean-Baptiste de la Salle, patron saint of teachers  
My 13th Birthday_

Happy birthday to me! This lovely new journal was my birthday present from Papa. He gave me this and a chocolate _mille-feuille_ from my favorite _patisserie_ after dinner tonight. I'm so glad Papa bought me this journal. Its cover is a beautiful blue, my favorite color, and it comes with its own pen and little ink pot. Now I have a place to put down all my thoughts, and practice my writing, too. Sister Marie-Agathe at school says that my penmanship needs improvement.

I feel quite grown-up now — thirteen!

**::**

___April 8, 1829  
Feast Day of St. Julie Billiart, patron saint against poverty_

I couldn't pay attention in school today. I'm lucky none of the nuns noticed and rapped my knuckles with their rulers, like they did to Josephine last week. But I felt so tired. I didn't sleep very well last night. As I was going to bed, a strange sort of sadness spread over me, and I laid awake for a long time, listening to the wind in the trees outside, and wondering. How old _am_ I? Am I _really_ thirteen? I might really be fourteen or twelve.

You see, Papa told me once that he had no way of knowing my exact age or my real birthday. I must've looked crestfallen when he said that, because to cheer me up, he chose an age (seven, at the time) and birthday (April 7th) for me on the spot, and promised that we would celebrate it every year. And so we have, very happily. Papa is so sweet and always gives me something nice on my birthday. He even gets me some chocolate or candy, even though my birthday nearly always falls in the middle of Lent, when we're supposed to abstain from sweets.

But looking back now, I see that telling me he didn't know my birthday was one of the few times Papa was ever truthful with me about my history. In the years since, I suppose to keep from disappointing me again, he's told me nothing of the past — neither mine nor his. Sometimes I feel like a book whose first chapter has been ripped out. Sometimes I want _so much_ to know what was written on those missing pages.

What time of the year is my _real_ birthday? What time of the day was I born? What was it like for my mother? Was I a fussy baby?

But these are questions I could never ask Papa. Even if he knew the answers to them, would he tell me? Perhaps not. I love him, but he would always change the subject or find excuses not to answer me when I used to ask him questions — a habit I've long given up. He never scolded me for asking, but he would claim that he couldn't remember, or that he was too tired to talk about it, or that he would tell me when I was older.

I'm older now, aren't I? But still... I wonder how old I am.

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I know the author's note for this chapter was practically longer than the chapter itself. I'm sorry! But the story is really going to get going with Cosette's next entry in her journal, and I promise it'll be longer. I hope you'll stay tuned! :)


	2. My Earliest Memories

Many thanks to all of you who've read, reviewed, favorited, or alerted this story! Your encouragement means so much in a project this size. And speaking of projects, Cosette gets started on her own in this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

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___April 12, 1829  
Palm Sunday_

I haven't written in a few days because I've been thinking over what sort of journal I'd like this to be. My mind keeps going back to what I wrote in my last entry, about how my life is like a book with its first pages torn out.

This journal is new and whole. None of its pages, neither first nor last, are missing. And it's my own journal, for me to write whatever I choose to. I've thought on it and decided that in this journal, I'm going to put down the story of my life — or at least, as much as I know of it — and how I came to live here on Rue de l'Ouest with Papa. It will be like my own personal history book.

Perhaps if I write down all the bits and pieces I have of my past, then I could fill in the empty spaces. I could guess at what was written on those missing pages. Even though Papa won't tell me a thing, he can't keep me from writing down what I already know.

I suppose I ought to start at the beginning, with my earliest memories. It isn't easy to write about those years — I don't even like to _think_ about them — but if I'm ever to learn more about my own life, then I must try.

I don't remember how I came to live with that awful man and woman at their awful inn. My mother lived somewhere else and sent them money to help pay for my keep. I remember because they always complained that she didn't send enough and they never should've agreed to keep me at all.

I don't know where that inn was, only that it was in a small town, surrounded by woods on all sides. The trees seemed so dark and tall and made me feel trapped. I wanted so much to run away, but there was nowhere to go, except into the woods, where I was terrified that bears and wolves would eat me alive.

My life at the inn was a miserable one. I was always cold and hungry, always tired and afraid. I don't remember the names of those monstrous inn-keepers — I called them only Monsieur and Madame. They called me horrible things. I could fill up this entire journal by writing about how hateful they always were. They hit me with anything within their reach. They used to

___Later — _

I thought I could write it down, but I can't. My hands started shaking so badly that I couldn't even hold the pen, much less write. Then the memories came too close. I started crying and couldn't stop until Papa heard my sobs and came into my room and held me. As soon as his arms were around me, I felt better. I felt safe again. He kissed my forehead and wiped my face and asked me what was wrong. I don't know if I couldn't tell him or didn't want to, but it took a long time for my lips to form the words.

I was leaning against his chest, and it was easier without having to see his face. It made me brave. I asked, "Papa, the people I lived with when I was a little girl... why were they always so cruel to me?"

He sighed into my hair and kissed the crown of my head and I was sure he wouldn't answer me. But he did. "They were not good people, Cosette," he said carefully. "I'm so sorry they were unkind to you, darling."

I thought _unkind_ was too gentle a word for what they did to me. Perhaps Papa doesn't know just how terrible they were. I can't talk of that time, not even to him — and of course, he would never ask me to — so I've no way of telling him. He suspects, I'm sure, but how much does he really _know_?

Papa took my face between his hands and raised my head until our eyes met. "You know you didn't deserve any of what they did to you," he said firmly. He'd done this with me before. "You know it wasn't your fault."

"They said it was," I blurted out, still tearful. "They blamed me for ev —"

"It wasn't your fault, none of it," Papa interrupted. "I want to hear you say it."

I took a deep breath. "It wasn't my fault," I repeated slowly, and saying it did make me feel a little better.

Papa pulled me back in against his chest. "Good girl," he whispered, and kissed me again.

I asked, "But... why did I live with them? Why didn't I live with my mother?"

Papa stepped back from me then. He said nothing. For a moment, we just stared at each other in silence. Then, from down the street, the church bells began to chime the half-hour. Papa looked at my window, towards the sound.

"It's late, Cosette," he said, "and you have school tomorrow morning. You should be in bed. Good night, darling." He kissed me again and turned and left my room without another word.

After he left, I put out my lantern, so he would think I'd gone to bed, but I lit a candle and have been writing all this by its flickering orange glow. Outside my window, the church bells are ringing again. I've always liked listening to them, but now, they seem to mock me. I feel so foolish, like a stupid little girl. Why did I ask Papa those questions? Did I really think he would answer me?

Perhaps I'm not as grown-up as I thought.


	3. The Best Day

I'm sincerely touched and humbled by all the kind and thoughtful reviews this story has received. This chapter comes (almost) straight out of the 2012 film.

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___April 14, 1829  
Holy Tuesday_

I can't write about my early life at the inn, so today I'll write about happier times, like the day when Papa arrived and took me away. I think it was the best day of my life. It was a bitterly cold winter day, and I'd been sent into the woods to fetch water — the worst of all my chores, because the woods were so frightening to me, especially at night.

Papa found me there. He took me back to the inn, where he and inn-keepers spoke for some time above my head. They were arguing with Papa, I think, lying to him that they'd taken good care of me and didn't want me to go. Then, finally, Papa picked me up and carried me away. I'd never seen him before that day, but I wasn't afraid. I was warm with his arms around me, and so glad to leave wretched place behind forever.

Papa brought me to Paris right away. We rode to the city in a horse and carriage. I'd never ridden in one before. I remember that as soon as we were on our way, Papa sat me in his lap and said, "Cosette, you and I are going to Paris, to live there. You belong to me now. You're my little girl, and I'm your papa. I'm going to take care of you from now on. Do you understand?"

I wasn't sure if I _did_ understand – no one had ever taken care of me before – but I liked this new man already, so I nodded. "Papa," I said, trying out the word.

He grinned and kissed me. "That's right," he said, "that's me." It was the first time I ever called him _papa_, and the first time he ever kissed me.

I was tired from working all day, so I laid down with my head in Papa's lap, and he took off his coat and spread it over me like a blanket. He put one hand on my head, and I felt protected. I felt _safe_, for the first time I could ever remember.

When I was younger, I used to think I fell asleep in Papa's lap, and what happened next was only a nightmare. But it wasn't. It was real.

When we reached the Paris, a man on a huge, dark horse chased us through the streets – so fast that the horse's hooves struck sparks against the pavement – and shouted at us. I was terrified out of my mind, sure we would be trampled to death. When I couldn't run fast enough, Papa grabbed me up and carried me. "Hold tight to me," he whispered, his breath quick and hot on my cheek. "Don't let go, no matter what happens." So I clung to him, my arms tight around his neck, and shut my eyes.

I opened them again when he stopped moving. I found that we lying down on a high, narrow ledge. Papa was holding me so tightly it hurt, and with his other arm, he held one hand to his lips, motioning for me to stay quiet. The angry man shouted things from the pavement below, but he couldn't see us, and after his footsteps faded away, Papa let out a huge breath and whispered, "Good girl, Cosette. It's all right now." I tried to answer him, but I was so scared that when I opened my mouth, all that came out was a squeak. I was still holding onto him, just as he'd told me to, so tightly that my arms would be sore the next day.

We've never once spoken of that night. Papa has never brought it up, and I was too afraid to. For a few years, I pretended it was a nightmare, even as I always secretly knew it to be real. I've always wondered but never given voice to my questions.

Who was that man? Why was he chasing us? At the time, I thought he was after me; I thought he wanted to catch me and take me back to that miserable inn. But now, I think he was after Papa. I just can't imagine why. What did he want with Papa? And how did he know him? And if that man _did_ know Papa, could he have known my mother, too? Could she have had something to do with it? That's possible, isn't it?

I just flipped back through the pages and reread my last entry. Perhaps, someday, I will be able to write about that time, and it will be bearable – but not now. I know the Bible tells us to forgive those who've hurt us, but sometimes, that's so much easier said than done.

**::**

_April 16, 1829_  
_Holy Thursday_  
_Feast Day of St. Benoit-Joseph Labre, patron saint of beggars_

Rereading my last entry, it seems strange that I didn't wonder about Papa's past when we first met. I feel like I should've asked him then, _Who are you? Where are you from? What do you mean, you're my father?_ But I didn't. I've no explanation for that.

When he walked out from between the trees in that dark forest, I didn't wonder who he was, or where he'd come from. When he picked me up and carried me away from that inn — which, while dreadful, was the only place I could ever remember living — I just leaned my head on his shoulder and relaxed, and never asked where he was taking me. When he told me to call him _papa_, I did so, and never wondered how a man I'd only met that day could be my father.

I think one reason for that was because when we're children, we don't see the world in the same way adults do. We don't think about the same things. But a bigger reason was because I hated the wretched inn and inn-keepers so much, I didn't care who he was or where we went, as long as he took me away from that terrible place.

I think too that I knew, even then, I was safe with Papa. I could tell from the way he said my name that he would never hurt me. I could tell from the way he took my hand and led me out of the woods that he would always take good care of me. And he always has. I can't put into words the sheer _relief_ I felt, knowing I didn't have to be afraid anymore. It was like magic. It was like love at first sight.


	4. Good Friday

Once again, to all of you who've reviewed this story, thank you! Or as Hugo would say, _merci beaucoup_. Or because I'm about to dash off to Hebrew class, _todah raba_. In any language, I'm grateful. :)

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___April 17, 1829  
Good Friday_

Today I'm writing this in our parlor, rather than in my bedroom. I usually write in this journal there, so that Papa won't see. But Papa isn't home just now. He's at the liturgical service at our church down the street. I stayed home because I don't go to church on Good Friday. I know that's sinful of me. It isn't that I don't _want_ to go; it's that I'm afraid to.

You see, on Good Friday, churches always go through the Stations of the Cross, reading, rather graphically, about what happened to Christ on His way to Calvary. That's what I can't bear — hearing about how He was stripped and crowned with thorns, how He was struck and scourged by the Roman soldiers, how He staggered and fell under the weight of the cross. It makes me shudder just to write about it. It makes the memories feel too close. I know it's blasphemous to compare oneself to Christ, and I don't mean to do that now... but I _do_ know how it feels to be struck and scourged, to fall under the weight of things too heavy to carry, while some angry person screams at you to get back up. I remember.

Years ago, on our first Good Friday together, Papa took me to church, and it was a disaster. I think I managed to last until the seventh station, when Jesus falls for the second time, and then I broke down crying so hysterically that Papa wrapped his arms around me and carried me out of church, right in the middle of the service.

I thought he would be angry, but he wasn't, and he didn't ask me any questions about why I so upset. He just sat on a bench in the church courtyard and held me until I'd calmed down — which I think took some time. I remember pressing my ear against his chest and listening as hard as I could to his voice and his heartbeat, because in my head, I could hear Madame's voice again, screaming terrible things at me. But Papa kept repeating, "You're safe now, sweetness, you're my good girl," over and over, until _finally_, I didn't hear Madame's voice anymore. Then he told me what happened to me wasn't my fault and made me repeat it after him, then we fed crumbs to the birds for a while, and then we went home.

Papa has never been to church on Good Friday since then, until now. He always stayed at home with me. I had to persuade him to go this year. He seemed reluctant to leave me home alone, which was strange because when I was a little girl and we lived in the boarding house, I remember him leaving me there alone sometimes. Not often, but sometimes he would tell me, "You be a good girl, Cosette, and don't touch the stove. Papa will be back soon." Then he would kiss me goodbye and leave, always locking the door behind him. He never said one thing about where he went or what he did, but true to his word, he always returned soon. It didn't frighten me, and I never thought it unusual – after all, what reference did I have for normal behavior?

But now, I wonder where he was going. The thought occurs to me that right now, while he isn't home, I could go into his bedroom and snoop through his things. He might have papers, or... I don't know what, but _something_, hidden away in there that would tell me more about my past, or his, or even about my mother.

But I'm not going to do that, of course. It would be far too wicked of me, especially on Good Friday, when we're all supposed to be especially repentive of our sins. And I don't want to spy on Papa that way. I feel certain that he would never do it to me. But I must confess, it's tempting.

The church bells haven't rung all day, because of course they're not rung from Good Friday to Easter Sunday Morning, but I think the service must be almost over. I should put this journal away in my room. Papa will be home soon.


	5. My Mother

I know the chapters in this story have been on the short side. I've been doing that on purpose because after all, Cosette is supposedly writing all this out by hand in this journal! But as a thank-you to my awesome readers, here's a longer chapter, just for you! :)

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___April 20, 1829  
Easter Monday_

I wonder all the time about my mother. I wonder what her name was, for Papa won't even tell me that, nor how she died. Was she beautiful? Was she happy when she realized that she was with child? Did she weep with joy when she held me in her arms for the first time? Or was she frightened by having a baby, worried that she couldn't provide for me, or that she was too young to be a good mother? Did she love me or hate me or pity me?

Sometimes, I stand in front of my mirror and search my face, thinking there must be a trace of my mother in me somewhere. But I suppose that's foolish of me. Even if I did see a trace of my mother there, how would I ever recognize it, when I don't know what she looked like, or the first thing about her?

I do wish I knew how and why I came to live with those terrible inn-keepers. My mother must've arranged it somehow, since she sent them money to help pay for me. I can only imagine she didn't know what kind of people they really were.

I've considered a number of possible scenarios about my mother. One is that she was quite young, perhaps only a few years older than I am now, and fell madly in love with a boy and gave herself to him. She kept their relationship a secret from her parents, who would disapprove and forbid her to see him. But she couldn't keep it a secret from them that she was with child, and when she told them, they were so furious that they refused to let her keep the baby.

Or perhaps my mother was married to my father, and they had been married for years and loved each other, but they were so poor and already had several other children and couldn't afford one more mouth to feed. Or yet again, perhaps they were married, but my father died before I was born, and my mother — whether she already had other children or not — simply couldn't raise me herself.

But I couldn't have lived with the inn-keepers when I was just a baby. Taking care of a baby is a lot of work, I think, and those people would never have gone to any trouble for me. They were so horrible that if anyone left a baby in their care, they would probably let it die before they looked after it. So someone else must've had me when I was a baby. Could I have been with my mother for my earliest years? Perhaps I was, but then when I was a toddler, something happened. Her circumstances changed, somehow, and she had to give me up. But I like to think that we were together for at least a little while. It's so sweet to imagine myself as a baby in my own mother's arms.

Oh, there are just so many possibilities. It's frustrating to think that I was _inside_ this woman, right beneath her heart, for nine months, and yet I know _nothing_ about her.

I love Papa dearly, but the older I get, the more I wish for a mother, too. I wanted one most on that day last fall, when I started my monthly bleedings for the first time. It started in the afternoon, just as I was coming home from school, but I was going to bed that night before I finally found the courage to tell Papa. Oh, it was so mortifying. What I wouldn't have given for a mother to talk to then.

I'm thirteen now, and I think I'll soon be of the age when most young ladies wear their first corsets. Actually, to be honest, I could probably make use of a corset now, for support — I don't have large breasts, but I do have them — but I'm still doing without one, because how on earth am I supposed to tell Papa that I need a corset? It'll be even more embarrassing than when I had to tell him I'd started my bleedings. But now I'm digressing.

I used to think about my mother whenever I saw images of the Virgin Mary. I used to imagine that she had the same sad, beautiful face that Mary always seems to have in statues of her. I still think about her often, but the Book of Exodus has always been my favorite in the Bible (for reasons that I'll talk about later) and now, I think she had more common with Moses's mother — the woman who lived in such dire circumstances that she was forced to give up her own baby, setting him adrift on a basket in a river, and then to watch from a distance as strangers raised her child.

**::**

_April 23, 1829  
Feast Day of St. George, patron saint of chivalry  
_

I wrote before that I'm keeping this journal to try to fill in the empty spaces. One of those spaces, one that I've always wondered about, is between Papa and my mother. You see, I still know nothing — _nothing_ — of Papa's life before that winter day when he appeared, out of nowhere, in the woods outside the inn. Where did he come from? What sort of life did he have before then? Why has he never mentioned his parents, or any siblings? Are they dead, or could he have grown up in an orphanage? Who _was_ he, before he was my Papa?

But most of all, I wonder, how did he know my mother? What was he to her, and she to him? I know Papa isn't my father by blood. I've always known that, deep down, but I feel guilty writing it. It makes it seem as if I love him less for it, when of course I don't. He's the only father I've ever known, and I love him dearly. It makes no difference to me that he isn't my blood father.

All Papa has ever told me is that my mother loved me, and before she died, she asked him to take care of me. But that tells me nothing about how they knew each other. I wonder if Papa was in love with her... but if he was, wouldn't he be at least a bit more inclined to talk about her? He won't even tell me her name.

I asked Papa this question once. It was years ago, back when we still lived in one large room at the boarding house. We were returning there from some errand I've forgotten, and as we crossed over the Pont d'Austerlitz, I noticed a lovely young mother seated on a bench near the railing, rocking a tiny baby in her arms.

My legs seemed to walk more slowly of their own accord, and my eyes lingered on that mother and her baby. I smiled at the sweet sight of them, and yet my heart ached. Even though I could never remember my mother, it made me miss her.

I knew that my mother was dead because Papa told me, the very first time we met. Even now, I can remember his exact words. He crouched down to my level and said gently, _Cosette, your mother is with God now. Her suffering is over._ I nodded as if I understood, but I didn't really. I've never had any memories of my mother. To me, she had always been somewhere far away; dead, she was just in a different far-away place, with God.

We were walking hand-in-hand, and I asked him, "Papa, how did you know my mother?"

I know he heard me because he stopped walking and looked down at me, taken aback. But he said only, "Are you tired of walking, Cosette? Come, Papa will carry you," and he picked me up and carried me home on his hip. I leaned my head on his shoulder, puzzled. Papa had never been unkind, but it made me feel strange that he wouldn't answer my question, like I was nosing about in something that was none of my business.

Perhaps writing about this was a mistake. Now I feel so angry. It _was_ my business. It's _my _life. What right does he have to keep secrets about it from me?

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Not to give anything away, but Cosette will revisit the subject of her mother when she develops some new theories about her later on in the story.


	6. Scars

As always, a **huge** thank-you to my kind, thoughtful reviewers. Your feedback means so much!

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___April 25, 1829  
Feast Day of St. Mark the Evangelist_

I just read over my last entry, and there was something I forgot to mention. I do know one thing about Papa's life before he found me in the woods — only one thing, and it's that someone, somewhere, once hurt him very badly. I know this because I've seen his arms.

Papa has always worn long sleeves. I can still remember when I first saw his bare arms. It was during our earliest days in Paris, and we'd just settled into the boarding house where we used to live. Papa was giving me a bath in the washtub. (An aside: I suppose I should've been old enough to bathe myself, but I didn't really know how. I'd almost never been allowed to bathe at the inn. Madame complained of my smell sometimes, but I knew better than to ask her if I could take a bath. She would've been furious at me just for asking and certainly never would've wasted any hot water on me. Besides, I liked letting Papa bathe me. I'd never really felt hot water before. I'd certainly never felt hands on me that didn't hurt before. I don't have the words for how _safe_ it was, to finally have someone taking care of me.)

Perhaps it was the first time he ever gave me a bath, and when he rolled up his sleeves, I gripped the sides of the tub with both hands and gasped aloud.

His arms were covered in scars — not just a few, but many of them. They criss-crossed his skin like lines on a map. I didn't like looking at them, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. The worst were the ones on his wrists, which were so thick and went round his wrists completely, like shackles he could never remove.

I wanted to ask what had happened, who had done such a thing to him, but I was too afraid of what the answers might be. (I know now, of course, that he wouldn't have told me anyway.) Could it have been that angry, shouting man who'd chased us through the streets? What would he do if he found us?

I put my hand on Papa's poor scarred arm, swallowed hard, and asked timidly, "Do they still hurt?"

Then, in my mind's eye, I pictured Papa with his arms all slashed and bleeding, and I must've started crying because the next thing I knew, Papa had lifted me from the tub, wrapped me up in a towel, and was holding me in his arms. I sobbed against his chest, and he stroked my hair and said softly, "No, Cosette, they don't hurt anymore. It's all right now."

But the sight of his arms triggered a fear in me. For some time after that, I had such horrible nightmares — in which a group of huge, faceless men came for Papa and dragged him away, then sent me back to that inn, to be slapped and screamed at every day — that Papa let me sleep in his bed with him. I woke up crying almost every night, but he would wrap his arms around me and say, "It's all right, sweetness, Papa's right here," and I felt safe again.

I still can't bear to think of anyone hurting Papa like that, and I certainly can't imagine why they would ever do it. Papa is always so kind. I don't think I want to know how he got so many scars... or what his back might look like. It makes my stomach hurt.

But there is one thing I do wish I knew — whatever happened to his arms, was anyone there to comfort him after? Papa has always been there to comfort me whenever I'm hurt. Once I was climbing a tree in the _Bois de Bolougne_ and fell and scraped my knee, and he fussed over me as if I had broken bones. Then there was that winter when I caught such a bad case of the flu. I can't remember much of it, because of the fever, but I do know that Papa seemed to be there at my bedside every time I opened my eyes. He wiped my sweaty body down with cold cloths and spoon-fed me soup until I was strong enough to do it myself.

Now that I think of it, anything I've ever needed, Papa has given me – except the truth, except answers to my questions.

I hope

He's calling me

**::**

___April 29, 1829_

I nearly jumped out of my skin when Papa called my name just as I was writing those words about him. It was like he knew what I was doing. But he didn't, of course. He said he concerned because I've been spending so much time in my room lately, and he wanted to know if anything was wrong. I stammered some excuse about how I was writing a story in the journal he gave me. It sounded made-up even to me, but Papa seemed satisfied and hasn't asked me any more questions. Still, I put this journal away for a few days, and yesterday after school, Papa and I went for a long walk by the Seine. Paris is so perfectly lovely at this time of year, with flowers blooming and birds singing everywhere. I think that's why Papa chose the springtime when he made up my birthday: it's the prettiest time of year.

It would be easy for him to read my journal during the day, while I was at school, but I don't believe he would read it without my permission.

I don't want to make him suspicious. Above all, I don't want him to know about what I'm really writing in this journal. Yet at the same time, I feel a bit guilty for not telling him. I'm not very good at keeping secrets — not like Papa, who keeps so much of his life a secret from me.


	7. The Book of Exodus

Thanks so much for your patience with me in posting updates to this story. As always, I hope you all enjoy the new chapter!

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___May 1, 1829  
Feast Day of St. Joseph, patron saint of fathers_

Papa taught me to how read while we were in the boarding house. He wrote down the alphabet for me, and he practiced it with me every day, helping me remember which letters made what sounds. It was slow and hard. There were so _many_ letters, and I remember thinking that I would never learn them all, that I was just as stupid as Madame at the inn used to tell me I was.

But Papa was very patient, and eventually – I think we must've been at the boarding house for some time – I learned all the letters, and the letters became words. Papa bought me a children's Bible, one with pictures and a large typeset, to practice reading from. My favorite part was the story of Moses and the Exodus from Egypt. I used to beg Papa to read it to me every night before bed. I could never tell him why it was my favorite, but I want to write down the reason here. It's a bit difficult to explain.

I wrote before that I used to wake up crying from nightmares so often that Papa let me sleep in his bed with him. He always comforted me, but never asked what my nightmares were about. He probably guessed that they were about my life at the inn, and he's never asked me to talk about the past. But one night, when the memories felt too close, I told him. I curled up against him beneath the blankets and started to tell him that in my dream, he'd been dragged away somewhere, and I'd been sent back to that inn.

I say that I _started to tell him_ because he didn't let me finish. He stopped me right away, interrupting, "That does sound frightening, Cosette, but it was just a dream. No one's ever going to take you away from Papa. Now close your eyes and try to go back to sleep, love."

It still bothers me that he stopped me from talking about it. I think Papa likes to imagine that I was born on that day when he found me in the woods. I think he likes to pretend that I had no other life before him. My life was miserable then, but it was still _my life_. Those years are still a part of who I am, and Papa acts like they never even happened.

"It was just a dream, sweetness," he always said when I woke up crying. _"It was just a dream."_ It made me feel a little angry and very uncertain. I wanted to tell him that it _wasn't_ just a dream, that it had _really_ happened, but I never did. Instead, I actually began to doubt the reality of my miserable years at the inn. Papa pretended it never happened, so maybe it hadn't. Maybe it really was just a bad dream. But could I really have dreamed all that?

But then Papa bought me that Bible and read the story of Exodus to me, and I felt reassured. Exodus was my proof that those years before Papa had been real. The story began with a description of the Israelites as slaves in Egypt, how harsh and unhappy their lives were. From that very first sentence, it seemed to me that Papa was reading about my own life. And the more he read the story, the more connected I felt to it. In my mind, I was the children of Israel (because I'd had to work hard all the time too, just like the Hebrew slaves) and the inn where I used to live was my bondage in Egypt. The madame and monsieur were my hard-hearted pharaohs. Papa was my Moses, sent by God to save me. I still think that whenever I read Exodus today, particularly these verses:

From Exodus, Chapter 2:23-25 – _The children of Israel cried out for help from the depths of their slavery, and their cry came up to God. God heard their cry, and God remembered His covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God looked down upon the children of Israel and saw their suffering._

Whenever I read that, I think of God looking down upon me that night in the woods, and I remember how Papa found me and took the bucket of water from me – thank God for that, it was so heavy – and how he took my hand and led me out of the woods.

When I was younger, I never thought much about what happened to the Israelites after they left Egypt. To me, the story stopped after they were freed from slavery and God parted the sea for them to escape from the pharaohs and their chariots. They all sang a song praising God, and they all lived happily ever after. _The end._

But now, I know of course that the Israelites spent forty years wandering in the desert after they left Egypt. They were free, but the story wasn't over yet. I suppose mine isn't, either, or Papa's. We've been wandering, too. I've been wondering. Perhaps we haven't reached the Promised Land yet.

Oh, I don't know what I mean by that.

Today is the Feast Day of St. Joseph. He was Jesus's father on earth, even though they weren't related by blood. I think I'll say a special prayer for Papa before I go to bed tonight.


	8. Running

To my anonymous reviewer, please see the reviews page for my reply. To everyone, it's hard for me to believe, but with this chapter, we're about at the halfway point of the story!

* * *

___May 4, 1829  
Feast Day of St. Godehard, patron saint of sick children  
_

Today I'm writing this outside in our front garden. Papa thinks I'm doing schoolwork, for I often do my schoolwork in the garden when the weather's warm. I don't think he'll look too closely and see that I'm actually writing in this journal.

Our garden looks just like a painting right now, with the most gorgeous blue hyacinths and purple irises in full-bloom. I do wish I had the words to capture how beautiful they are, or how heavenly they smell.

I remembered today that I once asked Papa what his name was. The memory just came to me out of nowhere. It's odd how the human mind works sometimes. I hope that as I write more in this journal, I'll remember more things that I thought I'd forgotten. For the more I write, the more desperately I want to find answers.

It sounds strange, doesn't it, that I had to ask my own father his name, but I was still quite young at the time. He told me when we first met to call him papa, and I've always done so, but one day, it occurred to me that if I ever got lost or we were separated somehow, I would need to know Papa's proper name to ask other grown-ups for him.

So one evening, we were eating dinner in our old room at the boarding house, and as Papa leaned over to cut my meat for me, I looked up at him and asked, "What's your real name?"

He stopped cutting my meat and just stared at me for a moment. Then he smiled and laughed, as if I'd said something funny. "You know my name, my silly girl," he said, touching my nose with his finger. "It's Papa, of course."

I knew, even then, that _papa_ could not be his actual name. I started to ask, "But what..." but that was as far as I got before he interrupted me. "Eat your dinner, love," he said, and then he got up from the table to pour us some more water, even though our glasses weren't empty.

I never asked him that question again, but I did start to pay attention to what other grown-ups called him. That was how I realized he was changing his name.

**::**

___May 6, 1829_

Sometimes I _hate_ being a girl. Sometimes it seems like life would be simpler if I were a boy. I started bleeding today, and I feel so awful from it that I'm staying home from school. What I hate so much is that I never know how I'm going to feel when I'm bleeding. Some months, I feel perfectly fine and normal, but other months, I feel like a piece of cloth that's been scoured on a scrubboard, wrung out, and tossed on a line to dry.

This May seems to be one of the latter months.

I've never told Papa when I'm bleeding, not since that very first time it happened last fall, but I think he can tell. This morning, when I told him I didn't feel well enough to go to school, he just nodded and said, "Do you want me to rub your back for you?" Some months, I ask him to do that, because my back can ache quite badly when I'm bleeding, but I said, "No, it isn't my back this time, it's my stomach." I've barely eaten anything all day, but Papa hasn't tried to make me. Thank goodness for that, because I feel so bloated right now that just the thought of food almost makes me sick. Papa usually gives me a good deal of space during those days of the month when I'm bleeding, which I appreciate.

I'm lying on the floor of my room right now, because when I tried to lie in bed, it felt all wrong, too soft and too warm. Everything just feels wrong. To distract myself, I'll write some more about my earlier life.

I know I haven't been telling my story exactly in order. Today I'll go back to when Papa and I first came to Paris. We lived in an attic room in a boarding house. It was a small, plain place, but we were quite happy there. I remember playing on the bare floor and how much I liked standing at the window and watching people pass by on the street far below me. I can't remember how long we stayed there; it felt like a long time, but time passes slowly when you're young. I know Papa bought me new dresses and shoes because I outgrown my old ones.

But we left that boarding house very suddenly one night. I still wonder about that. Why did Papa want to leave so quickly? Was he running from someone? Or something?

I had gone to bed as usual, but in the middle of the night, Papa gently shook me awake. "Come, Cosette, wake up," he whispered, in a low, urgent voice. "Hurry, my girl, we're leaving." I sat up in bed, blinking and bewildered. Papa had lit a lantern, and by its dim light, I could see him packing. He threw his two silver candlesticks and other things into a big sack.

I started to ask a question – I think it was _Where are we going?_ or _Why are we leaving?_ – but Papa shook his head and said, "There's no time, darling," and lifted me out of bed. He didn't even give me time to change into a dress or put on my shoes. He just had me pull my coat on over my nightgown, threw the sack over one shoulder, scooped me up with his other arm, and we slipped silently out of that room and down the stairs.

At the last minute, just before we left, I grabbed my doll off my bed and tucked her inside my coat. I still have her, Catherine, the doll Papa gave me when we first met. I don't sleep with her anymore, but I keep her on a shelf in my room. Perhaps it's babyish to still have a doll at my age, but every time I try to give her up, I imagine my mother leaving me behind at that horrible inn, and I can't do it.

It was a dark night and must have been very late, because there wasn't another soul out and all the shutters were closed, which is unusual in Paris. But even though the streets were deserted, Papa hurried and kept glancing over his shoulder, as if we were being followed. Maybe we were, because once, I thought I heard footsteps in the darkness behind us. I clung to Papa and whispered into his neck that I was afraid.

"I know, sweetness," he whispered back, "but it's all right. Papa's right here. Keep quiet now." He kissed me and I felt better, but he never slowed down. In fact, he walked even faster, until he was practically running.

He hurried on through the dark for what felt like a long time. It was a chilly night, but I was warm with my coat and his arms around me. I eventually fell asleep against his shoulder, and when I woke up, we were in the convent. But I must continue that part of the story on another day. Now my back has started to ache, and I'm going to find Papa and ask him to rub it for me.


	9. In the Convent

As I've said before, this story isn't canonical (is that even a word? canonical?) to any one version of _Les Miserables_, but draws from all of them. Valjean's alibis in this chapter are taken straight from the 2000 French miniseries, which in turn adapted them loosely from the book. As always, I hope you enjoy it, and I value any feedback! :)

* * *

___May 11, 1829_

We lived in the convent until I was eleven. I went to school there, and Papa worked in the garden. For the most part, we were happy. There were a lot of other girls there, and it made me feel so blessedly _normal_ to go to school with them every day. I'd never been around other children much before, and never gone to school at all. Every day in class I thought, _This is what normal girls do. I'm a normal girl._

Still, sometimes, I felt trapped inside the convent, like a bird in a cage. Papa and I never set foot outside the high garden walls. I once heard him say that we were safe there.

"Safe from what?" I asked him.

"Nothing," was his response. "Have you studied your geography lesson for tomorrow?"

I scowled. He knew geography was my worst subject. It seemed silly to study places in the world that I would never see myself. I never even got to see Paris anymore.

The sisters were kind, and I made friends with the other girls, but sometimes I missed our little old room, where it had been just Papa and me, with no rules to follow or classes to attend, and he took me on walks all through the city. Even though I spent time with Papa every day in the garden, it was so different from before, when I'd been with him nearly every waking moment.

One afternoon, just after we first arrived there, I asked Papa why we'd left the boarding house. He was working in the vegetable beds, and I was playing at his feet, drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick. As he ripped up some weeds, I suddenly remembered the little pot of flowers I'd had on the windowsill of our old room. I'd left it behind. I feared it might be dying without me there to water it, and I tugged on Papa's shirt and told him we had to go back for it.

But he shook his head. "I'll find you a new plant, Cosette," he said. "Why, look, this whole garden is full of flowers. I could put any one of them in a pot for you."

He was right, but I'd planted my old flowers from seeds, watered them and watched them slowly grow, and I couldn't bear to think of them withering away and dying. I became rather bratty and demanded to know why we'd left and why we couldn't go back. We _had_ to go back, I told him. I _had_ to get my flowers.

Papa looked away across the garden and sighed. He said, "I know it isn't fair to you, Cosette, and I'm sorry, but we can't go back. We had to close that door. Another story had to begin. Can you understand that, child?"

I _didn't_ understand. I still didn't know why we'd left or why we couldn't go back. I still wanted Papa to tell me, to explain it to me... but he seemed so sad that my anger faded away. And I remember thinking – for the first time, but not the last time – that perhaps it wasn't worth knowing, not if talking about it made Papa so sad. I didn't want him to be sad, so I climbed into his lap, kissed his cheek, and told him I loved him.

Suddenly, his strong arms were around me, so tightly it hurt, and he said, sounding strangely desperate, "Papa loves you too, Cosette. Don't you ever forget that, my girl."

As if I could.

I can still smell the dirt on his hands, the sweat on his brow, still feel his arms crushing my body to his. I didn't understand his words then, about how another story had to begin, but looking back now, I think I do. I think Papa had done it all before, before he had me with him – packed up in the middle of the night, left his old life behind, and started over somewhere else in the morning. The question is, why?

What was he running from?

**::**

___May 14, 1829  
Feast Day of St. Matthias, patron saint of carpenters_

It was when we came to the convent that Papa changed his name for the first time. The sisters there called him Monsieur Fauchelevent. When we lived at the boarding house, his name was Monsieur Fabre. I remember because the landlady there doted on me, and if we passed her on the stairs or in the hall, she would say, "Monsieur Fabre, how is that darling little girl of yours?"

I never spoke of it to Papa because it unsettled me when I heard the sisters call him Monsieur Fauchelevent instead. I was just a little girl, and even I knew it wasn't normal for people to change their names like that. I remembered that dark night when we left our old room in the boarding house for the last time, and I hadn't known it was the last time. It made me feel so uncertain, like the ground might be pulled out from under my feet at any moment.

That feeling got worse when Papa changed his name for the second time, when we moved here to Rue de l'Ouest. I was with him when he bought the house and signed the papers, and the man who sold it to him said, "I hope you and your daughter will be very happy here, Monsieur Leblanc."

And now he was someone else again, Monsier Leblanc. It startled me so. It was then that I looked at Papa and realized, for the first time, how little I really knew about him. I wondered, for the first time, who he really was.

There are several different flowers here in our front garden, but no roses. Perhaps I'll ask Papa if we can plant a rosebush. I read once that a rose by any other would smell just as sweet. I know that I would love Papa just as much, no matter what his real name was. After all, it isn't as if I would call him by it. I would still call him Papa.

I know Papa thinks I haven't noticed how he's changed his name. He thinks I've forgotten or I haven't noticed a lot of things – like how he avoids policemen. That unsettles me a great deal, too. At first, I thought (I _hoped_) it was only my imagination, but then I started to watch for it. I've seen Papa find any excuse to turn down a side street or walk the other way to avoid passing by a policeman. I don't know why, and honestly, I'm not sure if I want to.

Papa has always kept to himself. He's not unfriendly, but very private, and I've followed his example. I have friends at school, girls that I talk to and sit with during lunch, but I've never brought any of them home, and Papa has never encouraged me to. We have people whom we're friendly with, but no close friends.

I suppose there's no point in letting people get close to you when you might have to leave at a moment's notice. Papa moves so suddenly and completely – like when he took me away from that dreadful old inn, from the boarding house, from the convent. We were there one day and gone the next, with no warning, no time to say goodbye.

We've lived here on Rue de l'Ouest for a long time now, but I'm still not sure if Papa has settled down for good. I wish I felt sure, b

_Later, that evening —_

_But I don't_. That's how I meant to end that last sentence. I was lying in our front garden this afternoon, writing, and in the middle of the sentence, Papa came out into the garden and called, "Cosette? What on earth are you doing?"

My heart lept right up into my throat. Papa couldn't know what I was writing just then, that it was about him always changing his name. He had no way of knowing that... did he? I feared for a second that maybe he had read my journal one day when I was at school.

But he hadn't, of course. He was only asking me that because I was lying on my stomach on the grass, writing, and I'd taken off my stockings because it's already as warm as summer in Paris, and I happened to have kicked my dress right up over my knees.

"The front garden faces the street, Cosette," he said sternly, "and you're thirteen now. You can't be lying out here as bare-legged as a newborn babe. It's indecent." I was tempted to remind him that he didn't know if I really was thirteen, that it was only his guess at my age. But instead I told him I hadn't meant to kick my dress up over my knees. But Papa made me come back inside anyway.

I'm in my room now, about to go to bed, and Papa just came in to tell me goodnight. He kissed me and held me for a moment and said, "I'm sorry for what I said earlier, Cosette. I was much too hard on you. You know you have to be patient with your old papa sometimes."

Yes, I know that. I feel like I've been being patient with Papa for a long time.


	10. Margaret & Agnes

Please rest assured that this is _not_ the last chapter of this story, even though it might seem like it.

* * *

___May 17, 1829_

Yesterday evening, after dinner, I was outside in the garden, watering the flowers, when Papa stepped outside and said, "Cosette, I don't want you out in this heat for too long. Why don't you come inside and get washed up? Then we can go to church."

"But it isn't Sunday," I said, confused.

He said we were going to church anyway, so I came back inside, and later, as we were walking to church, he explained to me why we were going there on a Saturday. He asked me if I knew whose Feast Day it was, and I said St. Margaret's. He asked if I knew her patronage, and I said she was the patron saint of orphans.

Papa said, "Yes, but what else?" I didn't know, so he told me. "She's also the patron saint of those who are falsely accused, of unwed mothers, and of prostitutes."

The last two quite surprised me. "Unwed mothers?" I repeated. "Prostitutes? But... it doesn't seem right that they should have a patron saint."

Papa frowned. "You mustn't be judgmental, Cosette," he said. "They need prayers too, as much as any of us do. Perhaps more so. When we get to church, I want you to light a candle and say a prayer to St. Margaret for prostitutes, unwed mothers, and all those who are unfairly accused."

It seemed like an unusual request, but I could tell it was important to Papa, so I did as he asked. I lit a votive candle and knelt and prayed to St. Margaret for a long time — so long that when Papa finally told me I could stop, my knees were sore, and it was quite dark outside as we walked home. Being in church for so long had made me start thinking of my Confirmation, and on our walk home, I told Papa that when I was confirmed, I wanted to take St. Agnes as a my saint.

"Your Confirmation is still some years away, Cosette," he reminded me. "You might change your mind between then and now."

"Maybe," I admitted, "but I don't think I will. I read in my catechism that St. Agnes was martyred when she was just a little older than I am. She's the patron saint of young girls, virgins, chastity, and of gardeners."

Papa looked at me, his eyebrows raised. "Gardeners, did you say?"

I grinned at him. "That's why I want to take her as my saint when I'm confirmed, Papa. You see, she's already _my_ saint, since she's the patroness of young girls and virgins, but she's _your_ saint too, since you worked as a gardener for so long. I want a saint who can intercede for both of us."

Papa smiled and put one arm around my shoulders. "I do like that idea."

I honestly wasn't trying to fish for information what I asked him next. I was only curious. I said, "Papa, when you were confirmed, who was your saint?" He said it was Simon Peter, and then I started wondering. I wanted to be confirmed by the patron saint of my father's profession — could Papa have done the same? St. Peter was a fisherman, so had Papa's father been a fisherman, too? Did he grow up in a coastal town? Fishing was hard work, with heavy nets full of fish and boats of every size — was that how Papa had gotten so strong?

I asked why he chose Simon Peter, but Papa said, "I didn't; the priest did. Where I grew up, it was custom for the parish priest to assign a saint to you when you were confirmed."

I knew it was hopeless, but I asked anyway, "Where did you grow up?"

We had just reached home. Papa pulled the key from his coat pocket and unlocked the front gate surrounding the garden. He always keeps it locked. "Go on inside and get ready for bed, Cosette," he told me. "I'll be in soon to tell you goodnight."

But I didn't move. He was acting as if he hadn't even heard my question, and that made me angry. I asked, "Papa, why don't you want me to know?"

His response was so fast and so unexpected that for a moment, I thought I'd imagined it. He said, "Because, child, it would only sadden you. Now go inside and get ready for bed." That time, I obeyed him. I walked down the hall to my room, wondering what sort of sad things Papa kept to himself.

The window in my room overlooks the garden. I looked out and saw Papa still outside, pacing back and forth across the grass. He looked so troubled. I sighed and drew the curtains, and later, after I'd bathed and changed into my nightgown, I looked out again. He was still there, but now he was sitting on the garden bench, brooding in the darkness. I couldn't see his hands, but it seemed like he might've been praying. He stayed out there for a long time — so long that I thought he wasn't going to come in to kiss me goodnight. Papa still kisses me goodnight every night, which perhaps is silly at my age, but I like it.

Finally, I was lying in bed reading before I went to sleep, and Papa came in and sat on the edge of my bed. He said, "Cosette, I know there are a lot of things I haven't told you... but you'll understand that someday."

How could he say that? "I'll never understand _anything_," I told him, "if you never_ tell_ me anything."

"I'll tell you when you're older, child."

He'd said that before, and it made me angry. Without meaning to, I blurted out, "I don't believe you." Papa looked shocked by that — and perhaps he had a right to. I'd never spoken to him that way before. But I went on recklessly, "Well, I don't. I don't believe you're ever going to tell me anything."

He stood up from my bed and paced once around my room, thinking. Then he sat down again and said, in the sternest tone I'd ever heard him use, "Cosette, listen to me. I'm your father. That means I know what's best for you. I know it's hard, but you have to trust me about this." I looked away and didn't answer, and Papa put his hand on my arm. He added, his voice tender again, "I don't want you going to sleep angry at me."

"I'm not angry at you, Papa," I said — and I wasn't angry anymore, not exactly. It was hard to know how to feel. I do love Papa _so much_, but I felt frustrated with him and _so_ sick and tired of never getting any answers to my questions. But I wasn't angry.

For a moment, he just looked at me. Then he said, "Give me a kiss, then, and go to sleep, my girl." I kissed his cheek, and he kissed my forehead, hugged me hard, and whispered into my ear that he loved me. I feel asleep wondering why it was so strangely important to him that I say a prayer to St. Margaret for prostitutes and unwed mothers.

**::**

_May 19, 1829_  
_Feast Day of St. Ivo, patron saint of abandoned children_

I think I should put journal away and not write in it anymore. I'd hoped I could learn more by writing down my history, but all I've done is raise more questions than answers. It's been much harder than I thought. It's even been frightening.

Perhaps Papa has always been a vagabond, wandering from place to place, going by different names, and when he passed by me in the woods and saw me struggling to carry the water-bucket, he took pity on me and decided to take me along with him for company. Perhaps that's all I was to him, just a child that he happened across and brought with him. Perhaps – and this suspicion bothers me the most – what he said about my mother sending him before she died was only a lie he made up to comfort me.

That suspicion bothers me the most because it makes _sense_. I can't simply dismiss it. Papa told me that my mother asked him to care of me, but he also told me that _he doesn't know my exact age or birthday_. My mother would've _had_ to have known that, obviously, and if he truly _did_ know my mother, then why didn't she tell him?

I don't really think that I'm nothing more to Papa than some child he found in the woods. I believe he loves me just as if I were his own flesh-and-blood daughter. And I don't really think that he's lying when he said he knew my mother, but it's possible. That's what upsets me so._ Any_ scenario is possible, you see, because I know so little about Papa, and he'll never tell me. All last night, one terrible possibility after another flitted through my mind, about why Papa would change his name and avoid policemen, and I tossed and turned and had such awful dreams.

Yes, I'm curious about Papa's past, but I don't want to feel suspicious of him. I don't want to think he might have lied to me, not about my mother or anything else. I don't want to feel like I can't trust him, because if I can't trust him, then who in this whole wide world _can_ I trust? No one.

I don't want to consider the possibility that someone (or worse yet, several people) out there are hunting for him and might still find him. I don't want to imagine that he might be taken away from me. Being separated from Papa was always, literally, my worst nightmare.

I had nothing before Papa found me – nothing and no one. I was all alone and unloved in the world. Whatever his reason is for changing his name and avoiding the police, if... that reason ever catches up with him, I could be left alone again, to fend for myself. I would probably have to live on the streets, like those poor beggars Papa always gives alms to. But that wouldn't even be the worst thing; the worst thing would be living on the streets _without_ Papa. I feel I could get through anything, as long as I still had him, but if

No, I can't write about this anymore.


	11. My Blood Father

___November 6, 1829  
Feast Day of St. Leonard de Noblet, patron saint of prisoners_

I put this journal away on a shelf months ago – almost six months ago, in fact – and told myself that I wouldn't write in it anymore. But this evening, I took it down and blew the dust off. I can't help it. My thoughts are so frantically jumbled-up just now, and I think if I don't write them down and sort them out, I might go mad.

I never thought much about my blood father. I don't know who he is, or a single thing about him, but I never particularly wanted to learn. That might seem strange, when I've been so curious about all the other things I don't know, but ever since Papa found me, I've had the dearest father anyone could want. Why should I go asking questions about another one?

But this week, that changed. All this week, I haven't been able to stop thinking and wondering about my blood father — and I don't like it _one bit_.

You see, all this week at school, we've been learning about the lives of different saints, in honor of All Saints Day, last Sunday. We studied so many, but there are hundreds of saints, so I know there are still many more that we didn't study. It was the lesson on St. Edith that got me started thinking about my blood father. Like me, St. Edith grew up in a convent, but unlike me, she never left it, choosing to become a nun as an adult. She was also conceived by rape. She was born because her father forced himself upon her mother.

It felt like my chest had turned to a block of ice when I learned that. The worst possibility yet entered my mind — was I conceived by rape, too?

The more I think on it, the more sense it makes. That's what frightens me so. That could be why my mother arranged for me to live at that miserable inn: she couldn't stand to raise me herself, because I made her think of the man who violated her, and so she abandoned me to those horrid inn-keepers and only sent them money out of some sense of obligation, not of love.

And even worse, almost too horrible to contemplate, but what if my mother knew how those inn-keepers treated me, and she didn't care? I've always assumed that she _didn't_ know, or else she wouldn't have let me go on living with them, but good heavens, what if she fully _did_ know how miserable I was?

Perhaps my mother never loved me at all. Perhaps she hated me from the very moment I was born — or even before then, from when she first felt me move inside her.

This would also explain why Papa refuses to speak about my mother to me: he doesn't want me to find this out, because he knows how much it would hurt me. And it would even explain why he wanted me to pray for unwed mothers, back on St. Margaret's Feast Day; he could've really been asking me to pray for my own mother. Do you see how much sense it makes? It fits so well.

To think that perhaps my father was a rapist and my mother never loved me at all and I'm only alive because something unspeakable happened. And if my blood father _did_ rape my mother, then who knows what other awful sins he might've committed? I could be the daughter of a _murderer_.

Oh dear, writing this down hasn't helped at all. My mind feels even more frantic than before, like a stormy sea.

This is something I never considered about those pages torn out from the book of my life. What if a very sad story was written on them? One that I was happier _not_ knowing? How foolish that was of me.

**::**

_November 7, 1829_

The weather has turned so bitterly cold this week. It's as if Paris went from autumn to winter overnight. Outside, the winds are harsh, the skies are grey, and all the trees are bare and lonely-looking. Inside, I feel just as empty and lonely. Last night, after writing that last entry, I laid awake in bed and couldn't stop thinking about how my blood father might've raped my mother.

It's always been so sweet to me to imagine that my mother took care of me when I was a baby. Perhaps she did. Perhaps when I was first born, my mother intended to raise me herself... but as I grew older, I came to favor that terrible man in my appearance, and my mother couldn't bear the sight of me and sent me away from her.

I tossed and turned and couldn't sleep, so I got up from my bed and crept into our parlor. I wanted so much to go to Papa's room and climb into his bed with him, like I used to when I was a little girl and had a bad dream. But I'm thirteen now... or at least, I'm probably thirteen. In any case, I'm too old to still be sleeping in Papa's bed, however much I might want to. So I went to our parlor instead. It's a bit drafty at night, but there was more light and noise from the street outside. I had so many bad dreams when I was a child that I knew I would feel safer with more reminders of the real world around me. I laid down on our divan and tried again to sleep.

I hadn't noticed if a light was still burning in Papa's room when I walked past his door. I didn't know how late it was. But he must've still been awake and heard my footsteps because a moment later, he came into the parlor, his white shirt glowing in the darkness. He asked why I wasn't in my bed, and I told him I couldn't sleep. He asked if I felt ill or had had a bad dream, and I shook my head.

He frowned and pressed his hand against my forehead to check for fever, but I was cool to his touch. Too cool, I suppose, because he went back to his room and returned with a blanket from his own bed and tucked it around me. I felt better right away; it was warm and soft and smelled like him. It was the second best thing to sleeping in his bed.

Then he sat gently on the edge of the divan and asked, "Sweetheart, do you want to tell me what's upsetting you?"

But I shook my head. I couldn't tell Papa my horrible (and almost certainly _true_) suspicions about my blood father, and how they weighed on me so. I don't think I could even bring myself to say those words to him — _my blood father_. I don't want to say anything to suggest I consider any man but _him_ my father. It would break his heart.

Papa just looked at me for a long moment, and then he bent over me and kissed my cheek and stroked my hair, which made me suddenly feel very sleepy. "Cosette, you know you can tell me anything, don't you?" I nodded drowsily.

I think he asked me one more thing, too. Just before I fell asleep, I thought I heard him say, "And you know I love you, don't you?" But would Papa really ask me such a question? Of course he loves me. Of course I know that.

When I woke up this morning, I was back in my room. Papa must've carried me there after I fell asleep. But even though I was in my own bed again, his blanket was still wrapped around me.

He knows that something is upsetting me, but I don't think he'll keep after me to tell him. I suppose he feels that since he keeps so many secrets, I'm entitled to a few of my own.

I know he wants me to tell him, though. I've always gone to him with my problems. I so wish I could go to him with this one.


	12. Foolish Things

A note to my dear readers — This chapter is (by far) the longest one of this story. In some ways, I think it's also the darkest. I value all your feedback, and obviously it's never my intention to drive any readers away, but I do think it's safe to say that some of you might not like this chapter. Please proceed with caution.

(For my own reference: With this chapter, this story overtakes the wordcount of a previous fic I wrote in 2011, and becomes my longest story so far.)

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___November 12, 1829__  
_

It's late morning — I can tell by the amount of light in my room, and the noise from Rue de l'Ouest outside. It feels strange to be in bed during the day. Papa kept me home from school today because I caught such a chill this morning. I did a number of foolish things this morning. I'm not sure where to begin.

I suppose I should start with the dream I had last night. It was a nightmare that I've dreamt every now and again, for the last several years. It's terrifying, but fortunately, I don't dream it often – only a few times a year, and always during the winter. I've never had this nightmare in warm weather. This week has been so cold that I should've been expecting to have the dream again soon. But I wasn't. It got me completely off-guard last night, and it was worse than ever.

In the dream, I'm always standing in an dim, endlessly long hallway lined with beds. At least, I somehow know there are beds there, even though I can't see them. There are curtains drawn around them, like beds in a hospital – white curtains billowing in the darkness, like something out of a ghost story. I'm alone in the hall, except for a woman standing right in front of me. She always beckons me to come with her, but last night, she went on.

In the dream, we were standing in the hallway with the curtains, this woman and me. I can't put into words how _eerie_ she always is. She's so thin and wasted, with sunken cheeks and impossibly long, thin fingers – more like a skeleton than a living woman. Even her skin has a ghostly grey color to it. Last night, she looked spookier than usual, and I wanted to run away from her, but I seemed to have lost control of my legs, and I was rooted to the spot.

"Come to me, Cosette," this nightmare-woman said, and when she opened her mouth, I gasped. Her gums were full of torn, bloody holes, as if her teeth had been ripped out. I didn't want to look, but I had lost control of my eyes, too. She held her bony hand out to me. "Cosette, it's turned so cold. Come to me, Cosette."

It made me nervous that she kept saying my name, but at first, I tried to be polite. "I can't," I said. "I have to go home. My father's wondering where I am. He's looking for me."

Quicker than I could see, she reached out and grabbed hold of my arm. I gasped again, for her hand was as cold as ice. I tried to break free, but even though her hand, like the rest of her, was nothing but skin and bones, her grip was like a vice.

"Cosette, the light is fading," she said. Her voice was strangely low and wavering, like she had some sort of disease in her chest. It made me shudder. "Come to me, Cosette," she said again, and she tugged hard on my arm, trying to pull me closer.

I dug my heels into the floor. How could someone so thin be so strong? "Let go of me," I told her, but if anything, her grip only got tighter. Oh, where was Papa? I prayed that he would find me soon. This terrible woman was strong, somehow, but Papa was stronger, and he didn't like anyone but him putting their hands on me. He would make her let go of me.

"Cosette, don't you hear the winter wind is crying?" Her voice was like an echo from the grave. "There's a darkness that comes without a warning."

I felt so desperately frightened now. My free hand reached up for the silver cross necklace that I always wear. Papa gave it to me for Christmas last year, and touching it makes me feel better when I'm scared. But in the dream, when I reached for it, it was gone.

"Come to me, Cosette," the woman said again. Why did she keep saying that?

"No, let me go," I said, hoping that I sounded braver than I felt, and still struggling to break free of her. "My father will be here any minute, and when he sees you've put your hands on me —"

"You aren't _his_," the woman interrupted, her voice cold and angry now. "You're _mine_. You belong to _me_."

That unsettled me, for some reason that I can't explain. I flashed back to the day when Papa and I met, to when he sat me on his lap in the carriage and said, "Cosette, you belong to me now. You're my little girl, and I'm your papa."

"No, I don't," I said to the woman, shaking my head. "I belong to my father."

"No, you belong to _me_," she repeated angrily, "and he isn't your father. You don't even know his name. _He_ doesn't even know _your_ name."

"He does so!" I yelled. Now I was angry, too.

"Your name isn't Cosette, it's Euphrasie. And your birthday isn't April 7, it's August 24. You were born in Paris. Felix..."

She kept talking, but I didn't want to listen to any more of her lies. I understood now what this woman wanted — she wanted to take me away from Papa. I turned my face away from her and screamed down the hallway, as loudly as I could, "Papa! Papa!"

I thought I heard a door open from far away, and then Papa was there, calling my name and shaking me awake. It made me feel so childish to have him wake me up crying from a nightmare – he hadn't done that in years – but I was too relieved to be embarrassed. He wrapped his arms around me, and I leaned my head against his bare chest (he had no shirt on, only trousers) and listened to his steady, reassuring heartbeat, so relieved that he was there, warm and solid, sitting on the edge of my bed, and that eery ghost-woman was gone. I didn't look at his arms.

Whenever I've had nightmares like this, Papa has always comforted me, but never once asked me to talk about them. He didn't ask me to talk about this one now, but the nightmare had been so frightening and still felt so close that without thinking, I opened my mouth and began telling him the whole thing. It all just spilled out – the hallway full of white sheets like a hospital, the woman's ghastly appearance, everything she said to me, how she grabbed me and wouldn't let go. The spot on my arm where her hand had been still felt cold.

It's hard to describe what happened next. I think I only noticed it because I know Papa so well. At least, perhaps I don't know _Papa_ well – and how it saddens me to write that about my own father – but I know his habits. Before, whenever I've tried to tell him about a nightmare, he's always stopped me right away. But this time, he didn't. He sat there and listened to it all... and there was a strange expression on his face. He looked as if he'd heard this before.

I stopped talking about my nightmare mid-sentence. I said, "Papa... you know something."

He was looking down, at his hands in his lap, but at this, his eyes jerked up to me. I could tell from the look in them that I was right: he _did_ know something. He was hiding something that he didn't want me to find out. But he said nothing, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. His face was wet, and there was a smear of shaving cream on his cheek. I realized that it wasn't so early in the morning before I would've woken up ordinarily, and when he heard me screaming for him, Papa had been in the bathroom shaving. He must've run to my room without even putting on a shirt.

When he didn't answer, I put a hand on his arm, still without looking at it, and pleaded, "Papa, please tell me."

But he shook his head. He looked so uncomfortable. "It's nothing, Cosette," he said thickly. "It was just a dr—"

"No, it wasn't!" He looked startled when I said that – I'd never interrupted him before – but I didn't want him telling me that it was just a dream. Not again, not this time.

He stood up from my bed, and I did too, quickly, because for a horrible moment, I feared he might run right out of my room. I wouldn't put it past him. There's little he wouldn't do to avoid answering my questions.

"You know something – something about my dream," I insisted. I felt like I was on the verge of understanding something very important, if only Papa would tell me what he knew. "What is it?"

He rubbed one hand over his mouth and took a deep breath. He seemed to be bracing himself. "I don't know anything, Cosette," he said carefully. "You just had a bad dream, and you're imagining things."

It was so frustrating, but I kept after him. "Who was that woman? What did she have to do with me? Tell me, Papa." I had never done this before. I had never pushed him so hard to talk about anything before.

Papa shook his head again. "There's _nothing_ to tell," he said firmly. "That time is dead."

That made me angry. Papa _did_ know something, I was sure of it, but he didn't want to tell me. "You've no right to keep secrets from me like this! Why won't you tell m..." But I stopped on the word because just then, Papa turned away from me, and for the first time in my life, I saw his bare back.

His back was so awful that it's hard for me to even write about it. It was worse than his arms. The scars were everywhere, from the nape of his neck until they disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. I gasped at the sight of them, and Papa spun around quickly, and I could tell by his stricken face that he hadn't meant for me to see. But it was too late. I had already seen. I had even seen enough to tell that they were scars from being whipped.

I swayed on my feet a bit, feeling sick and scared. It made my stomach hurt to think of Papa being hurt so badly. The only people I could think of who might be whipped so much were slaves or prisoners.

_Prisoners_. The scars like shackles around his wrists. The man on a horse who chased us through the streets. The way he always changed directions to avoid walking past policemen.

No. No no no, he couldn't be, not my Papa. No, it wasn't possible... was it? I didn't want to know, but I had to.

"What happened to your back?" I asked in a very small voice.

He looked hard at me but said nothing. The only sound was the silence that seemed to mock me, the silence that was always my only answer whenever I asked Papa about the past. I felt so frustrated. I wanted _so much_ for him to tell me that he'd never been in prison, that there was some perfectly safe, sensible explanation to the scars all over his body. But there was only silence, and the silence seemed to confirm my worst fears.

"What_ happened_?" I demanded again, my voice bigger and louder. "Who _are_ you?"

He answered me then. "You know who I am, Cosette," he said firmly. Papa and I never shouted at each other, but now, his voice was rising to match mine. "I'm your father."

And then — God forgive me — I did something so horrible I'm ashamed to write about it now. I looked right at him and said, "You're _not_ my father!"

I saw the shock on Papa's face, and then I realized what I'd just said, how cruel and terrible my words were. Had Papa slapped me across the face just then, I wouldn't have blamed him. I deserved it. But he didn't, of course.

One of the last times I ever saw the hateful man who lived at the old inn, he slapped me so hard that I thought the blow would knock my head clean off. I don't remember what I had done to make him so angry.

Sometimes Papa has hugged me or held me so tightly it hurt, but he's never once raised a hand to me. I believe he would sooner cut his hands off than strike me with them. How could I have said something so horrible to him?

I'd been afraid of Papa running out of my room, but I was the one who did it. I don't know what I was thinking. I only knew couldn't stand there facing him after what I'd said. The shocked, hurt look on his face was too much to bear. So I turned away from him and hurried out of my room, up the hall, and then, of all the foolishness, I went right outside to our garden — our front garden, which faces the street, in my nightgown, in the middle of November, with the sun barely risen. I must've lost my mind.

There was ice on the front walk, because it's been so cold and wet lately, and I was barefoot, but I stood there anyway, shivering. I wanted to put as much distance as I could between myself and Papa. I couldn't believe what I'd just said to him. My face felt strangely warm, and I realized I was crying. I don't know how long I stood there, but soon, from behind me, I heard our front door open. I didn't want to turn around and face Papa, but I did.

"I'm sorry, Papa, I'm so sorry," I said over and over, but I don't think he could understand me because I was crying so hard and my teeth were chattering from the cold. He had hastily put on a shirt and his long waist-coat, but he took his coat off and bundled it around me. I immediately felt better — not only warmer, but safer, like his were arms around me, even when they weren't.

I was sure he would be angry with me. As if what I'd just said to him wasn't bad enough, Papa has a rule that I'm never to leave our house in my nightgown, or to let anyone see me in it except him, and now I was out in the front garden in it for all of Paris to see.

But he wasn't angry. He just said, "Come, Cosette, let's go back inside before you catch your death." He stepped closer to me, and I thought he would put his arm around my shoulders and walk me inside, but instead, he swept me off my feet and carried me.

He carried me across the front garden and back inside the house. I leaned my head against his chest, the lapel of his coat brushing my cheek, and said softly, "I really am sorry for what I said, Papa. I didn't mean that."

He carried me through our front foyer and down the hall to my room. "I know you didn't, child," he answered, and I felt a little better. His voice was calm, but his face still looked sad – so sad that it pained me to know that_ I _had made him look that way.

Papa laid me down in my bed, but I sat up even as he was pulling the blankets up over me. "I have to get ready for school," I told him, but Papa shook his head and said, "You're not going to school today, Cosette. You need to stay in bed and get warm again. Lie down, now." I obeyed, and Papa slid one hand beneath the blankets and felt my feet and legs. "You're frozen stiff," he muttered, shaking his head. "Running outside in nothing but your nightgown." I could tell that I would probably get a lecture later, about modest behavior for young ladies, but for now, Papa was tucking me into bed like I was a little girl again. It was a little embarrassing, but I didn't mind so much. He ran his hand over my hair and said that I was to stay in bed until he told me I could get up, but I don't mind that, either. It's given me time to write all this.

Papa can still pick me up as easily as when I was a little girl. When I grew bored in class at the convent school, I used to wonder how he might've gotten so strong. Did he used to be a farmer, sweating under the sun as he pushed plows and loaded haybales? Or was he once a sailor, the salty sea spraying his face as he hauled himself up the mast to secure the rigging? Once I asked him those questions. Papa just laughed and kissed my nose, which always made _me_ laugh, and said how much he loved what a big imagination I had. I was going to bed that night before I realized he never answered. How like him.

But I can't be mad at Papa after what I said to him this morning. "_You're not my father_." A few pages ago, I wrote that I didn't even want to say the words "_my blood father_" to him, because I didn't want to hurt him by suggesting that some other man was my father. But what I said to him this morning was a million times worse. I've _always_ thought of Papa as my father, ever since we first met. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? Where did it come from? It bothers me to know that I'm capable of saying something so hurtful to the man I love more than anyone else in the world. It makes me wonder... perhaps my blood father – whoever, wherever he is – could be a terrible man. Perhaps he is indeed a rapist, just as I suspected, and I inherited a capacity for cruelty from him.

But now I'm just trying to ease my guilt by making excuses. It doesn't matter who my blood father is. Papa is the man who's raised me, and what I said to him was nobody's fault but my own. I should put this journal away right now and pray for forgiveness.


End file.
